General Tso Explains Colombia.

Recently, I've had an unusually strong desire to eat spicy food.

I have a few memories of really good, spicy Asian food, so I've been grabbing food from different Chinese places around town lately, asking whoever's taken my order to spice it up a bit (a lot). Most of these experiences have been fairly disappointing. I've requested extra spicy food and received a plate of tasty-but-not-so-piquant food. This happened like five or six times in a row.

Two Fridays ago, I got out of work and drove to a Chinese place by my house that's open until midnight. I walked in and placed a take-out order for General Tso's chicken. Desperately hoping to end my streak of disappointing requests for spice, I said something to the effect of "can you make that really, really spicy? Like really spicy. Like a lot. Just give it to me. Let me have it."

The woman who took my order, concerned for my well-being, asked me, "are you sure?" to which I responded, "just... try to kill me."

After telling me "okay..." in a tone meant to absolve her of all responsibility for the scorching of my palate, she communicated my request (in a foreign language I can only assume was Asian in origin) to the cook. I don't understand a lick of whatever language they were speaking, but it was very clear from their tone and repetition that it would have been something like this in English:

Hostess: "He says he wants it really, really, really spicy."
Cook: "Is he sure?"
Hostess: "He said try to kill him. Really, really, really spicy."
Cook: "Is he sure?"
Hostess: "Yes, he's sure."
Cook: "Really?"
Hostess: "Really, really, really spicy."
Cook: "Really?"
Hostess: "That's what he said. Don't look at me."

This was encouraging. It assured me that if I wasn't going to get my desired level of spiciness, I'd at least get their best attempt at it. I don't think I even have a particularly high tolerance for spicy food. I've just wanted it lately.

When the hostess brought my order to me, she handed me the bag and told me "good luck with your chicken" on the way out. I went from encouraged to mildly nervous. I was either going to get exactly what I asked for and love it or get exactly what I asked for and get the crap kicked out of me by a plate of Chinese.

I drove home and began to eat. It was hot. It wasn't the sort of spiciness that bites you immediately. Rather, it just got hotter and hotter and hotter as I ate. I could feel an intense warmth in my cheeks (which, according to my roommate, were quite red), I was sweating, and by the time I had finished the plate of food, my tongue was considerably swollen. It was a combination of physical reactions to food that would really freak someone out unless they had asked for them; it was very unsettling. I absolutely loved it.

I recently spent five weeks in Colombia, doing ridiculous physical labor in ridiculous heat, humidity and sunlight. I felt physical comfort for a cumulative total of what could have only been a few days throughout the trip. In addition to the physical rigors of the trip, it was filled with deep and honest introspection and toil over my inner state of being, my life and its direction.



Now, almost two full months after my return from the trip (I have spent more time back from Colombia than I did in Colombia), that plate of Chinese food is the most fitting analogy I can use to explain my experience. It was painful. It was increasingly intense, having more effects on me than I could have anticipated.

It was the time of my life.